


Heavy on the Heart

by knights-and-musketeers (periken)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain, Period-Typical Slavery, Porthos Whump, Potential Trigger Warning for Slavery and Racism, Racism-mentioned, for people who are uncomfortable with the mentioning of the topic, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6581008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periken/pseuds/knights-and-musketeers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos and Aramis are assigned as escorts for the arrival of noblemen at the docks. When Porthos overhears a conversation about slavery between two noblemen, it angers him; past memories resurface and he fills with resentment. Aramis tries to comfort him, but is afraid that his inquiring may do more harm than good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy on the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for The Musketeers fandom so I apologise if it's not that great.

The sun starts to peek over the horizon as dawn breaks. Despite it being summer, Aramis shivers slightly from the cold wind that blew around the docks. He watches the waves rolling fiercely across the ocean bed, crashing against the high cement walls supporting the dock. Birds dive down and glide just above the water, their calls drowned out by the ocean waves.

He crinkles his nose at the smell of fish wafting towards his face from the distant breeze. The scent overpowers the sea salt air due to the merchants setting up their stands of various sea foods along the docks, trying to take advantage of the arrival of newcomers to gain business. They prepare their stalls as soon as they can, after all the early birds get the best spot on the docks with their booth right by the arrival entrance. Some pull their wagons up beside their market stall with extra provisions in case they start running low on stock while others have stacks of crates piled behind them.

A group of noblemen are to arrive today and Treville has assigned Porthos and Aramis, along with some younger Musketeers, to escort the nobles to Paris. These missions are the most mundane ones, only second to guarding at parades. Nothing much ever happens during escort missions as the 'to be protected nobles' are usually accompanied by their own guards as well, which made the musketeer's presence basically unnecessary.

The other three musketeers that accompanied them are wandering around the market stalls looking, with much contemplation, at the variety of fishes laid out as if interested in making a purchase.

Porthos stands by Aramis along the edge of the docks. The large musketeer has his arms crossed in front of him with an inattentive expression while he watches the waves crash against the hull of the docking ship. He sighs and raises his chin towards the vessel.

"Why do we get stuck with babysittin' duties while Athos & D'Artagnan get to 'ave all the fun?"

Aramis shrugs. "Don't know. At least this won't take too long. Paris is only a days ride away."

His eyes follow the nobles slowly descending the ramp that connects to the dock. He puts a hand over Porthos' shoulder. "Perhaps we should find some fun of our own then," a wicked smile spreads across his face.

He spins his head around when he notices a beautiful woman pass by with blonde hair flowing over the shoulders of her silky, green dress. Her elegance radiates to him like a signal of distress. She winks at him from the unexpected attention and Aramis flashes her his brightest smile. He trails after her as his 'romantic hero type' persona is determined to break free and show its colours.

Porthos turns his back towards the sea, wondering what has caught the marksman's attention. It seems the musketeer has been entranced by a woman and, as usual, he flirts with them, giving no thought as to what the consequences may be if an angry husband finds out. Porthos rolls his eyes and smirks, someone found some fun.

He glances back at the passengers who are still sauntering their way off the ship as if they have all the time in the world. Many still linger on board, fully immersed in conversation with another while gathering their belongings leisurely. He stares daggers at the noblemen descending the ramp as if doing so will get them to disembark faster. Porthos drifts his attention back to Aramis just in time to see the woman, whom he was flirting with moments ago, slap him across the face.

Porthos laughs in amusement as she walks away, leaving a rejected Aramis behind, who looks like a puppy that was neglected by its owner.

He's about to head over and console Aramis when he stops in his tracks, a conversation between two noblemen walking past him having got his attention.

"...those people have it all figured out. Slave trading is such an easy business to get into and you make tons of money from it. I could do it too. All you need is to get your hands on a bunch of weaklings, put them on a boat and send th--"

Before he even finishes his sentence, Porthos is inches from the man's face, hands wrenching at his collar. The expression in the nobleman's eyes changes to one with fear at the seething expression across Porthos' face. The other man tries to pull his friend out of Porthos' grip, but to no avail.

Heads turn towards the scuffle and quiet murmurs rise amongst the people walking by. Porthos growls angrily at the man in his clutches. "People are not expendable! They aren't your tools to exploit with!" His booming voice is deep and intimidating, breaking through the bustling conversations amidst the men and women.

"Taking innocent lives is not a business!" Porthos' eyes flare with a burning fire that is fueled by pure anger and disgust. The mere thought of tradesmen taking innocent people in order to make a few livres causes him to clench his fists even tighter around the man's collar. Emotions cloud his judgment, his anger boils to the brim and he can't hold back any longer.

He's about to punch the man in the face when suddenly someone grabs him and holds his arm back. With his grip still on the man, Porthos turns to glare at whoever detained him.

He scowls as he sees Aramis holding him back. He fights the marksman's restraint, trying to shrug himself free, but the medic manages to keep his hold though not without some difficulty. "Porthos! We can't have him harmed!" Aramis shouts.

The larger musketeer's ire threatens to crawl its way out, wanting to be released against the nobleman. He knows they must protect him, but his emotions are going haywire with mixes of disgust, anger and pain. As much as he wants to pummel the man for what he said, he knows the consequences would be dire if he punches a noble. The King and Treville would be at his throat for such an act.

With great reluctance, he lowers his fist, loosening his grip on the man before letting him go with a rough shove.

"Sorry for the trouble fellas. No hard feelings?" Aramis gives an apologetic smile to the two men.

The noble scoffs as he fixes his rumpled collar, the fear that filled his eyes moments ago diminishes being substituted with a scornful glare. He lifts his chin up at the pair. "Is this how you Musketeers behave? No respect as usual." He struts away as if the fight unfazed him. His friend trails behind him, looking back at the musketeers with an irritated stare. Aramis still has the light smile plastered on his face when they leave. As soon as the two men are out of sight, the smile drops and he confronts Porthos.

"What are you doing? The Captain and King will be furious if the noblemen are harmed, especially from a musketeer!" Aramis exclaims, his face inches from his musketeer brother.

Porthos simply scowls at him, his eyes still filled with anger. He pushes past Aramis and storms off toward the streets of the city.

\----------

Immediately, Aramis knows something is very wrong. The marksman has seen that look before and knows he needs to give Porthos some space, but of all the times he's seen Porthos get upset, the man has never become this physical so quickly. Porthos gets aggravated when certain situations arise, but he knows his place and won't act rashly unless the subject of speaking crosses his threshold. Aramis furrows his brows in worry, and plods his way to the other side of the city where they are to make their journey back to Paris.

\----------

The trip back to Paris is long and quiet apart from the sounds of the carriage rolling along and the horse's hooves against the rugged path. The nobles quietly chat amongst each other with the occasional laughter accentuating from the carriage, paying no attention to the others around them.

The silence between Aramis and his musketeer brother is unbearable. He misses his booming laughter and their silly conversations which always brought about a warm smile across both their faces. Now, Porthos gives a cold glare and ignores him when he tries to nonchalantly ask what happened back at the docks. He gives the same look to anyone else that glances in his direction, scowling at them until they look away.

Aramis could tell he's brooding. There's a spark of rage still present in his eyes and a grimace spread across his face. Whatever happened there, he certainly didn't take the situation lightly. He wishes he could comfort Porthos in some way, but the big man always needs time to collect his thoughts. Even after that, he doesn't always share what's been occupying his mind so Aramis decides to stay quiet and not ask any further questions.

\----------

The icy glares Porthos has been shooting at everyone is sending the message loud and clear not to approach him. The other three young musketeers ride at a reasonable distance away from the large man, not wanting to be on the receiving end of his wrath if they are to get too close. Only Aramis rides by his side, worry evident on his face.

"What happened... back there?" his voice is cautious yet laced with concern.

Porthos delivers the same cold glare again and turns his head away.

Part of Porthos wants to tell him what transpired back at the docks, knowing that the marksman would listen attentively and understand how he feels when dealing with past memories coming back to haunt him. But the other part, the more protective, doesn't want to say anything. He doesn't want to be a burden to Aramis, having him carry part of the weight of what he faces. The marksman has enough to carry on his own shoulders already. He didn't want to add more to his load. This is something he needs to deal with and overcome himself.

Aramis remains quiet for the rest of the journey. Porthos is glad for the silence as he is not in the mood to interact with anyone and needs the peace to focus on suppressing the memories that have risen.

\----------

The palace is buzzing with greetings and kind regards among the nobles of the two countries once they arrive in Paris later that evening. Gifts are exchanged and the sounds of laughter echo off the walls and ceiling as the nobles wait for tonights dinner. When the meals are served, the nobles immerse themselves in conversations with one another, while indulging in the wonderful banquet. Nothing is said by the nobleman from this mornings scuffle as he is happily drinking away from the treat of wine.

The conversations soon die down as dusk approaches and the nobles start to settle in. Treville relieves the musketeers of their duties and they head back to the garrison. Aramis trails behind Porthos from a distance, giving him the space that he needs.

Upon arriving at the garrison, Porthos heads straight up to his room and Aramis watches as he slams the door shut.

Aramis hates that he is so helpless. He desperately wants to go into his room and comfort his brother, but he knows that that will do more harm than good. Porthos tends to need some time alone when he's upset. He decides to give the big man a little more time to calm himself.

Aramis sighs, feeling dejected, he drags his tired feet up the stairs and goes to his own room as well.

\----------

About an hour later, Aramis hears the door creak open and click shut from the room beside him. He looks up from his book, which he barely read, as worry occupies his mind, destroying any form of concentration. He sets it aside and strides over to the window, hoping to see Porthos at his door, but instead sees the musketeer's slumped form disappearing into the streets of Paris.

His heart tells him to follow his friend, to give solace and embrace, but his mind knows that is unlikely to turn out well. Porthos has been brooding all day and whenever he does, he tends to isolate himself in his room and doesn't want any interactions with anyone, but sometimes, he'll head to the tavern to ease his mind.

Luckily, he never stays for long, even if he is upset, and is usually back within an hour or so unlike Athos who holes up in the tavern all night. Aramis sighs and sits down at the edge of his bed, fiddling with his fingers and chewing on his bottom lip. He hopes Porthos returns soon and most importantly, safe.

\----------

Porthos heads to a tavern two streets down in desperate need for a few drinks, a fight, and not to be found. He needs to alleviate some of the tension he's been carrying since this morning. The incident left him in a petulant mood, bringing up memories that he has suppressed for years.

Pain. Suffering. Loneliness.

Resentment still fills his mind as the man's prejudice words echoes throughout. The thought of there being so many men who think this way, so apathetic towards one's life and blinded by the motive of making money causes his blood to boil in his veins. It disgusts him to such great extents. People have no right to make a slave out of anyone.

"Men are born free," he mumbles to himself as he approaches the tavern.

A booming of laughter, cheering and a sour scent of ale welcomes him as he enters.

The majority of the bar is occupied by brutes and mercenaries. There are men flirting with female servers, using their best pick up lines in hopes of getting themselves a plus one for the night. Some are collapsed on the ground or lying face first on the table, their ale addled minds swimming with fantasies of buxom women. He walks past some brutes cheering excitedly for their friend who right hooks another man in the jaw.

Porthos sequesters to the corner of the bar, away from the throng of revelers and asks a serving girl to bring a jug of wine.

This is more of Athos' territory. Ensconced, brooding in the dark corner about haunting past memories. The man has a heavy turmoil, but way too often has he used drinking as a form of distraction. It seems the large musketeer is following in his footsteps.

Knowing how often his brooding friend comes to the tavern in the dead of night, he's surprised to not find the musketeer present tonight. Him and D'Artagnan should of been back earlier this evening and he half expected his brother to have already claimed his rightful corner.

The serving girl arrives with a jug of wine and a glass. He takes a large swig from the jug directly, nearly downing a third of it. The liquid is warm and burns as it goes down his throat. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He orders another, knowing that he's certainly going to need more than one jug to overcome the anger that simmers in his thoughts.

After the first jug, he starts to slow his drinking pace, letting the alcohol sink into his system and overtake his mind and body. After two jugs of wine the pain and anger still continues to linger in his mind, not seeming to have subsided at all. But his body has started to capitulate, allowing the wine to take its effect of grogginess.

Despite the toll, he's itching for a fight in order to release all the built up fury and distract his mind from the unwavering tension.

That's when he hears the brute he saw earlier call out to everyone. "Who dares come forth to challenge the undefeated champion?!"

Porthos smirks at the man's ego and self appointed title of champion. Brutes like these are always picking fights, whether it's for cheating in cards, entertainment, or some pointless reason. But a good fight is exactly what Porthos needs tonight. The brute won't be the 'champion' for long.

Porthos attempts to get up, but stumbles a bit and places a hand on the table for support. His vision starts to swim and he can feel a headache starting to emerge, but that doesn't stop him from taking on the brute's challenge. He blinks a few times to stop his vision from swirling around and tries his best to ignore the rising headache. His balance wavers slightly as he stands up straight and answers the brute's challenge.

"Be prepared to renounce that title," his voice sounding rough and dark.

The brute turns in his direction and observes the state Porthos is in. He gives a booming laugh and nudges an elbow to one of his comrades. "Watch me beat this guy with one swing."

A menacing smile spreads across Porthos' face.

Oh this is going to be fun.

\----------

Aramis stares out the window in hopes of seeing the big man stroll back into the garrison. It's been a few hours and Porthos still hasn't come back. He couldn't sleep because of his recurring nightmares and from worrying about his brother's well being. Anguish is evident across Aramis' face as he starts to pace around.

Maybe Porthos drank too much and lost track of time? Or perhaps he doesn't want to be found, sequestering himself somewhere other than his room hence why he hasn't returned yet.

Although thinking the latter being more probable, he couldn't help but fear for the worst; an injured Porthos who couldn't make his way back.

Images of Porthos beaten up by a group of men, left to bleed out in the streets of Paris alone with no one to help him, flashes in his mind. He quickly shakes the scene out of his head while raking his fingers through his hair and closing his eyes, taking in a deep breath. He quickly puts on his doublet and boots, grabs his weapons and kit off the table and rushes out the door.

\----------

Once Aramis walks out into the streets of Paris, he realises that he has no idea where to look. Porthos has a variety of methods for coping when he's brooding unlike Athos who drinks all night. If he has decided to sequester himself, he may not welcome Aramis' presence. Despite that, he still wants to make sure that he's unharmed.

Aramis racks his brain for any locations he could have went to hide. Porthos knows the streets of Paris better than any of them. It'd be difficult to find him. He remembers once finding him ensconced in one of the darkest streets of Paris and it took Athos, D'Artagnan and himself hours to find the musketeer. He doesn't want to have another search party again.

Although... Porthos could also be at a tavern somewhere, drinking his troubles away and fighting to relieve pent up emotions...

His heart drops as he realises that if that is the case, Porthos may be picking fights everywhere if his emotions get the best of him. Aramis dashes towards their usual tavern while also scanning the streets of Paris, in hopes that his brother is not injured. Or dying.

\----------

Three more taverns to search out of the five in Paris. Aramis is starting to worry that his worst fears may see the light of day. He quickens his pace, sweat trickles from his forehead and down his back as he desperately hopes to find Porthos soon.

He arrives at the third tavern and enters, hoping for the best, when the sound of cheering and applause fills the room. The chanting comes from a crowd that encircles two men fighting in the middle of the tavern. It isn't until Aramis gets closer that he realises one of the men fighting is Porthos. 

Someone places a hand on his shoulder as he attempts to stride closer to the throng. "Don't get yourself involved in that mess," Aramis turns to the voice and sees the bartender with a grimace. "That large, black curly haired fella has been fighting brutes and mercenaries for almost two hours."

The musketeer quickly pushes his way through the crowd, ignoring the man's warning and observes the state his friend is in.

A small trail of blood can be seen coming from Porthos' head that leads down his neck. His lip is split and bruises with a shade of blue and purple bloom across his cheeks.

Half of Aramis' worst fear came true.

The medic's heart aches at the sight of his injured brother. He hates how despite Porthos knowing the consequences his body faces from the fights, the man is still willing to go through the risk of getting into physical pain in order to stabilize his mental state. Aramis knows this is Porthos' way to relieve tension, but he wishes it didn't have to involve violence and getting himself hurt.

He's about to step in and stop the fight when Porthos delivers a finishing blow at his opponent and the man collapses in front of him, unconscious. The crowd cheers even louder at Porthos' victory and they chant for more. Another brute enters the ring to take on Porthos and that's when Aramis jumps in and puts his arms around the musketeer's shoulders.

"I think you've had enough, Porthos. Time to head back," Porthos glances at him with glassy eyes. Even through the dullness, that little spark of rage still gleams in his eyes from this morning. Dark circles are present around his eyes, although he is unsure if it's from exhaustion or the growing of a nasty bruise. His doublet is undone half way and his shoulders droop with a heavy weight of hurt that he's been carrying since dawn, with none of it seeming to have even lifted a little. A strong scent of wine comes from his breath and he wavers slightly from the alcohol taking its toll, shifting his weight from foot to foot to keep his balance.

How he is still able to fight is beyond Aramis, but knowing Porthos, he's obstinate when it comes to giving in.

"Hey! What are you doing? Get out of the ring!" the brute shoves Aramis roughly away from Porthos and that's when the large musketeer's expression turns deadly.

He grabs the brute forcefully and points a finger at him. "Oi, don't you dare lay a hand on 'im," Porthos growls in a deep, threatening tone, staring daggers at the brute. Another fight is imminent judging from the malicious expressions on both fighter's faces.

Aramis quickly steps in between the two, placing a hand on their chests and pushing them apart, "Now, now there's no need to continue fighting anymore. I think there's been enough violence tonight."

He turns to the brute and gives him a smile, "How's about I buy you a drink, hm?" Aramis hopes that the offer of a drink will direct the brute's attention away from the intention of fighting. The brute considers the offer, turning his attention between Aramis and Porthos.

He looks at Porthos and scoffs. "You're lucky your friend saved you. Otherwise, I would of obliterated you." Porthos glares at him and Aramis could tell he wants to prove him wrong. Aramis holds the musketeer back and pats his shoulders while whispering into his ear.

"No more fighting today. I'm taking you back to the garrison." He calls to the bartender while pointing to the brute. "A drink for this man over here." The crowd quickly disperses afterwards as their source of entertainment ends and resume back to drinking.

Aramis directs his attention back to Porthos. "Can you walk steadily?" he asks even though it's clear from the way he's wavering that he can't.

" 'm fine, I can walk."

Despite his stubbornness, Aramis holds his arm as he attempts to walk. He staggers and almost stumbles to the ground from the first step. The man looks exhausted, physically and mentally. Aramis sighs and places Porthos' arm over his shoulder and slowly walks him out of the tavern.

"You're extremely hardheaded, you know that?"

Porthos turns his head slightly and gives him a weak laugh.

A slight wave of relief washes through the marksman at hearing Porthos' laugh again after a day of getting the silent treatment and a warm smile spreads across his face.

\----------

The trip back to the garrison is as quiet as the journey back to Paris this morning, except this time Porthos' laboured breathing is the only sound that breaks the silence.

The dim lights on the street is the only way they're able to find their way back to the garrison. Aramis can faintly see Porthos' slumped figure beside him, but he sees the large musketeer's chest heaving up and down heavily, as his lungs gasp for air. A gleam of sweat beads across his forehead. His legs looks as if they'd buckle at any moment from fatigue.

As the garrison comes into view, Porthos starts to lean heavily on Aramis and it takes some difficulty to make the trek up the stairs to their rooms.

Aramis brings him to his room and he seats the big musketeer gently down on the bed. He lights two candles, one on the desk and another on the bedside table.

Porthos is fighting to keep his eyes open and holds onto the edge of the bed to prevent himself from falling over from exhaustion. That's when Aramis notices the cuts and bruises that also stretch across his knuckles. Porthos tries to reposition himself so the wall can act as a support, but he winces slightly at the movement.

Aramis scrunches his eyebrows, a suspicious expression etches across his face. "Porthos?" he says, unable to keep the quiver from his voice.

The musketeer looks up, raising an eyebrow at him. The burning anger in his eyes has extinguished and in its place is a sense of sadness and absence.

Aramis strides over in two steps, undos the rest of his doublet and pulls his shirt up, revealing blotches of blueish purple bruises spreading over his stomach and sides.

A frown spreads across the medic's face. "Porthos... you can't keep doing this to yourself..." Observing the extent of the man's injuries makes him wish he followed Porthos when he left, then he wouldn't be in this state, all beaten up from picking fights. He could of prevented it.

It's all his fault.

If only he listened to his heart...

The big man gazes at the floor as if it has something interesting to offer. Aramis pulls a chair over. He places a bowl of water on it, grabs a towel, and kneels down beside him to dab at the trail of blood that traces down the side of his face, neck, and split lip. Thankfully, the wounds don't need stitching.

After a few minutes of silence while he works on cleaning him up, he decides to try and inquire upon the initial incident that brought about all this trouble.

"Back at the docks this morning... what happened?" he asks, making sure to speak in a calm and cautious tone.

Porthos doesn't move, his gaze still trained to the floor as thoughts clearly continue to occupy him. "It's nothin'. Don't worry 'bout it," he mumbles, voice thick with an amalgamation of emotions.

"Clearly it is something when you've been quiet and brooding all day!" He raises his voice at him which Aramis immediately regrets doing.

Porthos remains quiet, the orange glow of the candles reflecting off his gloomy face. Aramis feels a pang of guilt for yelling at him, for trying to pry too much.

His worrying got the best of him. The marksman knows that his constant inquiring is not making things any better, but he really wants to comfort him even if it is slightly.

With all that's happened, perhaps he doesn't deserve to know after all the pain he's inflicted.

Sighing in resignation, he returns his attention back to tending the bruises so the guilt doesn't overwhelm him.

He prepares the calendula oil and notices the smell of it causes Porthos to scrunch his nose in disgust and look up at him.

"It'll help soothe your skin and prevent swelling and infections for those cuts," Aramis explains as he swirls the contents of the remedy.

The big man's skin is tender and warm to the touch as he applies the oil to his cheeks and stomach. The illuminating light of the candles glow shines in his eyes, accentuating his tired state.

It pains the medic to continue seeing his brother like this and not be able to do anything to relieve his tension mentally. Some wounds are perpetual and nearly impossible to mend as the damage done is already too deep, too lost in the darkness and beyond help, but some can still be healed if light is allowed to shine through the cracks of the wound.

Aramis wants Porthos to see he can be that light.

He reaches for Porthos' hands to analyze the damage to his knuckles. Thankfully, no joints or bones are broken but bruises and cuts cover most of the area. More scars added to the numerous amounts he already carries, each scar having its own story. Aramis wonders how many of them are inflicted by him.

He cleans up the dried blood with a cool damp towel, applies some calendula oil and wraps his knuckles in bandages. Aramis gazes at Porthos' hands in his, gently smoothing his thumb over the bandages, wondering how they can be so destructive some times yet so gentle another.

He can feel the guilt starting to overflow his system. The throbbing in Aramis' heart makes him feel as if it's mocking him for not listening to his true conscious.

He closes his eyes, taking a breath and gives a doleful sigh. "I don't like seeing you in this state... Porthos. I never do. I detest it." He opens his eyes and looks at the big man who seems to have a distraught appearance joined by a slight frown.

"Whatever happened this morning... certainly is taking a big toll on you. Those men must have hurt something you hold close to your heart or it brought back past memories you've been trying to suppress."

Aramis pauses. He tilts his head to the floor, trying to hide his expression that suddenly turns into agony. Brows furrow at the wave of emotions and images that play in his mind.

His nightmares of Savoy.

All the men.

Slaughtered in their sleep.

He shakes the gruesome scenes away, refocuses his thoughts and inhales sharply through his nose.

"I understand how that feels... but I don't want you to face it alone, have this become another scar that shouldn't be there."

He studies his face, searching for any clues as to what is troubling him, what's haunting him. The big man's face is inscrutable, obstructed by a storm of conflict and emotions, but the dimness in Porthos' eyes expresses his body's state clearly.

"You should get some sleep, Porthos. You look like you're about to fall off the bed," he tries to help him lay down.

Porthos shakes his head briskly and places a hand on the bed, preventing Aramis from laying him down. He opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates and closes it without saying a word. He shuts his eyes and takes a long breath through his nose.

\----------

Despite the drained state of his body that aches for sleep, the battle of conflicting views between Porthos' heart and mind keeps him awake.

Should he tell Aramis?

His mind said no, feeling that bringing it up would cause him to relive those memories again. Memories he's managed to keep from arising for a while. Until today.

But his heart believes that holding back what's bothering him is causing Aramis much pain. He didn't fail to notice the way Aramis' face construed to one of sorrow. The way it pained the medic to see him in such a state or the slight pause where his expression suddenly turned to one of anguish. Memories of Savoy still haunt him, yet he's still here to support Porthos, despite his own nightmares and suffering.

As much pain as the resurfacing of his own memories evoke, it pains him much more to see that hiding himself away is hurting his brother. That his actions and body language pushed him away when all Aramis wants is to comfort him. Guilt flows through his veins, mixing in with the ire and slowly dousing the heat that boiled throughout the day.

His anger was never directed at Aramis. His silence may have given off that signal, but the situation that occurred caused him to break away from the world, needing the time to suppress the rage within and keep himself sane. He thought his silence would protect Aramis, prevent more stress on him, but instead it created more worry and anxiety.

His thoughts are disturbed when he hears Aramis speak.

"You should get some sleep, Porthos. You look like you're about to fall off the bed."

Porthos shakes his head as Aramis tries to lay him down. He opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates. He closes his eyes and takes a breath, trying to compose himself and organize what he's about to say. He opens his eyes and starts to speak in a low, thick voice.

"Back at the docks there... I overheard one of the noblemen sayin' how slave tradin' is such a great business," he spits the words 'slave trading' like venom. "It disgusts me that there are people in this world who think this is plausible."

He pauses and tries to keep the anger from boiling back up. "Stealing people's lives is not a business. Humans are born free. They are not a commodity," the words almost turn into a growl. "My mother was a slave and she was trea'ed like an expendable resource... Someone that means nothin' more than merely a tool for convenient labour," he closes his eyes, trying to push away the images that begin to emerge.

Aramis moves to sit beside him on the bed, listening attentively with a look of sadness slowly growing across his face. Porthos could tell he wants to say something, but stays quiet.

"Traders would sell 'em to others as if they're property. Hundreds of people packed on the deck, like fish at the market, for months... 've heard stories about those ships as a child. People shackled so they don't jump overboard," he can feel the anger crawl into his throat, threatening to burst out at any moment. He swallows it down and continues. "Many don't survive the journey 'cause they die from starvation or sickness. Men, women, children... No one cares. If the people die, traders simply get more. Innocents are taken from their homes, captured and sold like goods. They steal lives and use 'em as if these people have no life, family, or friends that care about 'em. These slavers believe they have no rights or free will. Traders target people of colour, thinking 'em vulnerable and easily subjugated. Assuming we're all low levels, merely servants and peasants. Nothin' more."

Porthos falls silent as the memories threaten to resurface again. He notices Aramis has moved closer to him. He sees the marksman hesitate to reach over and place an arm around him. A hint of solace appears within the sadness that clouds his eyes.

\----------

Aramis wants to embrace Porthos, but something makes him hold back. A hug is only comforting momentarily, but not enough for long term. He wants to voice his support, reassure him through words like a vow.

A soldier's promise.

"I've seen the way people look at you. Their prejudice thoughts evident through the glances but..." Aramis gently places both hands on the side of Porthos' face and turns his head so the musketeer's gaze is fixed on his dark brown eyes. Their foreheads inches from touching. "They don't know you like I do. You're one of the best soldiers this regiment has. You're the bravest, most selfless, and kindhearted person I have ever known. And you're my best friend. We are here for you, no matter what. Don't you think, for even a second, that we would ever let you be taken like that," the tone of the marksman's voice is earnest, his eyes glow with sincerity, assuring him that his vow is forever.

Porthos smiles with gratitude, but it dissipates quickly, turning cheerless. His face contorts into one of sorrow. 

Aramis frowns and let's go of Porthos' face. Does Porthos think his words are merely for show? Did he say something wrong?

Porthos' gaze turns towards the door. "I remember when my mother was taken from me... They came to our home and dragged her away. I was furious, kickin' and thrashin' at the men holdin' me back. I couldn't do anything to help. All I could do was watch her disappear and run," his voice choked, eyes on the verge of tears.

A large wave of guilt punches Aramis in the gut for causing this painful memory to resurface. Again, it's his fault. He makes everything worse for not choosing his words of dialogue carefully and not listening to his heart. Why does he hurt everyone he cares for? 

Aramis turns to leave, not wanting to elicit more pain and suffering on the musketeer. Porthos grabs his sleeve and Aramis stops in his tracks.

"Where are you going?"

Aramis doesn't turn around, not wanting him to see the distress in his eyes.

"I'm causing you more pain with my careless words," the medic mumbles.

He hears Porthos get up and turn him around. Aramis doesn't make eye contact, not wanting his brother to see the guilt he feels in his eyes, but Porthos lifts his chin up, staring straight at him.

"You didn't hurt me, Aramis," he says, voice gentle and reassuring.

Aramis doesn't think so, seeing the state of his bruised face. All that pain is something he could of prevented.

"No matter what you think, you've helped me more than you can imagine. You and the Musketeers. You guys gave me a home. A family. Somethin' I lost and thought I would never get back. I'm not alone anymore." Porthos gives a hearty smile, something he hasn't done all day and it lights up the room. 

The medic can't help but smile back in return.

The burning fire of anger that Porthos carried throughout the day has diminished. Aramis pulls his brother into an embrace. "Not anymore. Never again."

He feels Porthos rest his chin on his shoulder. " 'm sorry for givin' you the cold shoulder all day. The rage was overwhelmin'... It brought back too many memories I've been tryin' to suppress," he says, his voice turning into a whisper at the last sentence.

Aramis pulls away and nods. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I understand."

"I didn't want to be a burden, to have you carry my weight," he says while looking down at his shuffling feet.

Aramis steps back, brows shooting up and eyes wide and searching.

Porthos? A burden? Why would he ever think that?

He grabs his shoulders. "You are never a burden, mon ami. We'll always be here to support you, Athos, D'Artagnan and I. What's the use of a support if there is no weight for it to hold? We all help carry each other's weight so no one buckles from carrying too much. That's what support is for," Aramis beams a smile. "Your well being is what's most important. Seeing you fight your troubles on your own is what pains me most. I don't want you to be alone."

A heartfelt smile spreads across Porthos' face, shining like a beacon of gratitude. The gesture fills Aramis with delight as it's something he's been yearning to see again.

"Thank you," he says with a gentle, but weary voice.

It's clear that the big man is exhausted, the answer written in his tired eyes. Aramis opens his mouth, about to tell him to get some rest when suddenly Porthos wraps his arms around him, squeezing him into a tight embrace. He gasps at the abrupt gesture, his arms moving on their own accord and wrapping around the larger musketeer.

The big man's warmth is radiating and it flows through Aramis like a surge of relief. The marksman doesn't want to let go. He wants to keep Porthos in his arms forever so he never has to feel alone again.

A soft snoring sound comes from the nape of his neck. Aramis rubs Porthos' back gently in small circles as a warm smile creeps across his face, relishing in the gentle, comforting sound resonating through the silent room.

"Never again," Aramis whispers, "never again will I let you suffer alone."


End file.
